There's no such thing as a random act of kindness.

Honestly, I don't watch a lot of the news. 

I never have - I'm really more of an entertainment girl - but especially once I got to New York the local news was just too horrible and depressing.

But alas, I went and fell in love with a newsman.

I love that Brian Williams and sometimes, just sometimes, I'm willing to tune out the bad news for that sparkle in his eye. 

So imagine my surprise when today's news stories went something like this.

The "layaway angels." This rampant good-deed-doing sweeping the nation, this paying it forward, this desire to make yourself feel better (and that is not a bad thing, not at all) - all started by some woman in Michigan. Go figure.

One hundred... and one. We do a great job collectively, I think, of rallying around a cause. Until the next cause comes along (and one always does). Or until our own lives get in the way. Until we forget. But this guy said nope. Nope - I made a commitment when Katrina's devastation was everywhere, and even though the images are gone from the minds and TVs of most of the country, he hasn't forgotten. He promised to build 100 homes in one of the most ravaged parts of New Orleans. Until someone told him about the New Orleans lagniappe tradition - think a baker's dozen - and he went the extra mile, to 101.

Oh, did I mention he's the CEO of Barnes and Noble? Just goes to show you - books make everybody better.

Fairy dogparents. Do I really even need to say anything else?

There are good, good people in this world. Everywhere. I hope to be the kind of person that makes other people want to do good things.

Merry Christmas to all you beloved do-gooders!

(Especially you, Brian Williams, you cute thing.)

Bigger than football.

To everyone who thinks that college football is a detriment to our development, and that "kids today" can't be trusted to do the right thing, say the right thing, or step up to the plate,

that players today care more about bling than they do about God

or each other

or their communities

that these huge programs have taken over, and in their dominance have overshadowed why we go to college, why we cheer on Saturday afternoons, or what it means to be a member of something bigger than yourself...

I say you are wrong.

I'm proud of so many members of the Penn State family, the college football community in its united entirety, who have come together to remind us all the incomprehensible sins of some are not the attitudes of us all.
Hang in there, Lions.
Hang in there, State College.
Hang in there, everyone. Let's all do what we can to make sure lessons are learned.
O-H.

(5) Reasons to Be Happy

An impending Saturday afternoon trip to Target is always a reason to be happy.

But today's shopping list makes me extra giddy:
1. some kind of a string-type thing
2. toys with bells inside them
3. treats - i'm thinking liver or chicken flavored
4. nature's miracle

That's right, all; there are two new Stones in the world.

Meet Scout and Jem. I'm a horrible mother - I can't even tell which one is which - but these are my two newest, fluffiest, sweetest, tiniest, bright-eyed and bushytailed reasons to be happy.

(5) Reasons to Be Happy

After six long weeks of boot imprisonment, I get to go back to yoga tonight.
I'm sure my entire body will wimper and whine tomorrow, just as I'm sure my mind will find some much-needed rest.
It's been a tough week, complete with migraine and sick grandma and the unceremonious end of a college football legend.
Anybody else need a little namaste?

(4) Reasons to Be Happy

When she's happy, I'm happy.
Really, are there really people in the world who don't get how important/special/wonderful/snuggly it is to have a little unconditional love every once in awhile?
And also, I'm pretty frickin happy at how I'm rockin' out those pajama pants.

(3) Reasons to Be Happy

I'm not so much for cooking, but I make a seriously kick-ass grilled cheese sandwich. This was number somewhere-around-nine-in-a-row. And it was good. And I was happy.

(2) Reasons to Be Happy

Okay, so, the struggling streak continues. This morning I was leaving my parents' house when I realized I'd left something inside. Jumped out, slammed the car door, and forgot to move my hand first. Two stitches (wimpy, I know), and blood and mascara all over my shirt. The woman wanted to put my finger in a splint; I just gave a long, meaningful look at my booted-up foot and said, "Lady...  no."
I admit, I broke down and cried like a baby. It hurt like hell, but mostly it just made me feel a little like the universe is still acting like a big ol' bully to me.
But there are still some really, really, really great reasons to be happy. Why I was home in the first place, for example.
So today's reason to be happy:

Lifelong friendships, made even friendlier by pumpkin-pie flavored booze.

Reasons to Be Happy

Ever have a spell where life feels just a little bit like it's picking on you?
I have to admit, I'm in one of those spells. Things have been a little rough lately in my world.
I got my heart a tiny bit broken.
I got my foot all jacked up, which came with its own sort of heartbreak: never, never would I have considered that there was a shoe in the world I could consider an enemy. Then I met the boot.

And while my sweet father thinks I'm overly sensitive to things like this, there's just been a lot of death in my face lately. In all our faces. First, forty animals -- forty beautiful, innocent, scared animals -- were killed by, and this is not a typo, their emotionally unstable owner. While I wish those policemen had had an alternative, they did not. I almost surprised myself by empathizing with them, but I do. These guys weren't on a hunting trip with their buddies. They were out in the middle of the night, in the rain, probably scared shitless, trying to protect and serve their communities in a way I'm sure they did not cover in the Police Academy. Some of them maybe weren't too terribly bothered by it. But some of them, I'm also sure, had to go home to their families, their children, and live with such trauma, such destruction, such senselessness, because a crazy asshole decided it wasn't enough to take his own life, he had to make sure that he unleashed danger and fear on both the animals he purported to love and the neighbors who, as far as I can tell, had never done him any harm. Shame on you, crazy asshole. I kind of hope you're in a cage somewhere.
And then there's the images of a cruel, horrible, merciless dictator in the moments before his death. Now, let me be clear that I don't empathize with him, I don't give him sympathy he spent a lifetime not earning, and I do believe the world and hopefully Libya are better today than yesterday. But I don't want to see ANY man, any human being, bloody and tortured and mocked and beaten as he's being led to his death. I don't want to see any man with a bullet hole in his head. It happens. I know. I also know there's reasons I am not ever called upon by secret agents to carry out covert operations. So far as you know.
So, there's crankiness in the world.
But. More importantly. In the midst of all that, and in case after reading this far you think I've mistakenly titled this post, there are reasons to be happy.
There. Are. A. Million. Billion. Trillion. Reasons. To. Be. Happy.
My beloved writing teacher and friend taught me that.
So I'm going to spend a little time focused there, and see if that doesn't change some of the dreariness around me.
I've got the perfect place to start on this perfect Friday for starting.
Friday's Reason to Be Happy #1:
As you may have picked up from the above rant, I'm not cut out for military life. But I'm grateful for those who are. And I'm in awe of the families that have to function in their absence.
Today, a little before 9pm, one of those servicemen comes home after seven long, long months away. His wife has raised their five-year-old son during that time with the help of her friends and her community, but mostly on her own. I'm not a mom, but I know moms, and even the best moms have got to want to hand their kid off to their spouse every once in awhile, no? She couldn't. She didn't. Instead, she did what moms do. She celebrated him and bragged about him and tolerated him and wrote funny stories instead of strangling him.
So today, I'm happy for my friend, and her child, and for knowing that there will be a hug to end all hugs somewhere in the world tonight.

2,753.

I’ve been writing and writing. And deleting.

It’s hard for me to know what to say.

I have my memories of the day.

But they’re mine. And what I’ve realized is that I don’t need to add my voice to the chaos. You don’t need me to do that. They don’t.

Instead, I’ll add my prayers, and just ask you to do the same.

10 years.

Standing around the radio and confusion and curiosity.

Trinity Church and the wings turning and a minute of utter silence and screaming.

Arguing over whether or not we should take our laptops.

My serviceless cell phone and inappropriate, survivalistic laughter.

Carrie’s voice and Jeff’s and my father’s.

Battery Park and Amy’s tree and running towards the end of land and losing Erin and losing sight.

Dust.

Praying and the 1/9 station and walking across the bridge and Sharla’s swollen fingers.

A startlingly half-blue-half-black sky and seeing the Statue of Liberty in between the two. 

The guy, but not his name, who was by himself and ended up with our group for the rest of the day.

The Hasidic Jews with the water and the man who put too many of us in his car in Brooklyn.

Pete’s apartment and his clean tee shirt to replace my filthy black sweater and listening to the president.

Wanting to be home.

The Hoboken station triage center, around 1am, empty of people to treat. 

My voice mails and my cats and my bed.

September 12 and beginning the task of moving on.

Hoi Toide

You’ll hear two loud clunks as each car passes off the ferry, when your tires press the metal of ramp down to meet the metal of boat. It’s a final goodbye to the water and mainland and a boisterous hello to the sandy island. It’s best to be the first car off, just like it’s best to be in the first car of a roller coaster. Nothing to impede your view. A soft right turn sends you nine or so miles down a narrow path of highway, “highway,” where the dunes rise up on one side and the grasses, holding the lanky egrets and holding back the water of the Pamlico Sound, sway on the other.

Intuitively, maybe a little magically, two or three miles in, all heads in a long line of cars will turn to the left, in unison, in anticipation of the first glimpse of ocean between the dunes. It’s always beautiful. Even in the rain or the clouds, but especially of course in the bright sun. It’ll tease you for awhile, ducking and hiding behind the piles of sand and the tattered wooden fence posts failing miserably in their duties, and simply imploring the sand to stay clear of the blacktop.

Over Molasses Creek.

Past the campsite.

Past the Pony Pen. They used to run free here. They seem to hold the slightest of grudges about that.

Careful not to miss the entrance to the public beach, where there are finally, mercifully, boardwalks to take you across the hot dunes. It used to be quite a workout.

Right next to that is the tiny strip of land where those lucky enough to have both access to a private plane and knowledge of this place can come and go as they please.

Slow to 25.

Welcome to the village.

There are a few shops here; a few more than there used to be. Same with people and restaurants and hotels.

And there is a harbor here. It is, I have to believe, the most perfectly safe place in the world. A haven. My refuge. God protects the people of Silver Lake, even if it’s just for the week. He lets you dream here. He helps you hope. He points you to a beautiful little flawless and white lighthouse to give you focus.

But, how rude of me, you must be hungry. You’ve come such a long way.Howard’s will always welcome you. Every day. Even Christmas. Probably especially Christmas.

You’ll get a pizza this week from Jason’s, crabcakes at Café Atlantic. Treat yourself to some ice cream at the slushie stand. It’s not been a slushie stand for a very long time now, decades, but that’s what I started calling it as a child when it was, in fact, a small wooden slushie stand. And I suppose that’s what I’ll always call it. Come to think of it, I don’t know what other people call it now.

You’ll end the week at the Back Porch, the island’s version of fine dining and, if I’m not mistaken, the only spot where it’s actually required that you wear shoes. Fancy, indeed. It’s also where I’ll have my wedding, if that ever happens for me. But that’s a secret dream. I’m not even sure why I’m sharing it with you. I guess because I’m sharing the rest of my island with you, so I must trust you.

But back to dinner. You’ve got to eat tonight. Night one on the island. It’s lovely.

I recommend the Jolly Roger; it’s where we always start. Cold beer and sandwiches are fine, but the sound of the boats rocking on the water, and the view of the sun setting over the calm water will make conversation almost impossible, almost disrespectful. Then the music will start and you’ll have permission to not pay attention to anything. Do that for the rest of your time here.

This is just a tiny piece of this tiny place. The main drag, if you will. The rest you’ll have to find for yourself. The roads wind and circle. I recommend a bike. Find the coffee shop behind the school. Find the Historical Society. Find the path that leads you to Sam Jones’s grave, and his horse’s, and then out to a part of the water not very many people ever find. 

Find the Village Craftsmen at the end of Howard Street. Spend as much time on that street as you can; it is history come alive. It is breathtaking in it’s naked, natural beauty.

Visit the Ragpicker and Over the Moon and Ride the Wind. The fudge shop. The Variety Store. Find the bookstore and the cemetery and Kathy O’Neil’s jewelry and Albert Styron’s store and Oscar’s; make sure to find some of Ann’s pictures while you’re there. Find a hammock or a screened-in porch or a beach chair and a good book. A few of them. And find yourself.  Even if it’s just for the week.

It’s the perfect place for just that kind of thing.

Welcome to Ocracoke.

Putting the Mother in MFer

Years ago, when I first started writing down the random crap that pops into my head with frightening regularity and then decided, “You know, the general public should really be given an opportunity to read this stuff firsthand,” I set some ground rules for myself.

1.       I would never just complain for the sake of complaining. Unless it was super funny.

2.       I would never write anything mean about anyone. Or at least I would never name them. Unless it was super funny.

3.       I would never use this blog as a tool for revenge against exes, homicidal dogs, boys I liked who didn’t like me back, or overachieving coworkers who make me look like an underachiever. Unless.... you get it.

It’s been a good run. Today, I break the rules.

Bitch, you know who you are.

And you know what you’ve done.

I am sick and tired of putting up with your crap and your crankiness and your sudden (and severe) mood swings.

What, you think just because you have “Mother” in your name no one can call you on your shit?

You think just because you have “Nature” in your name people will just assume you’re all warm and earthy and welcoming?

I call bullshit.

You need to get it together, lady.

Because I’m on the edge here, and if I have to hear “cold, damp, and humid” out of the weatherman’s mouth one more time, followed by phrases like, “for the foreseeable future” and “no end in sight” and “it’s not my fault dammit if you want sunshine move to f*cking Florida” I’m going to crack.

I miss my sundresses.

I miss my tan.

The novelty of my cute new Marc Jacobs boots wore off like FOUR MONTHS AGO.

I can’t get a decent shave to save my life, because I have goosebumps all the time.

I can’t understand why my voluminous umbrella collection is never where I am.

People are beat down, woman. You win. Please, just a smile. A sunbeam. Some sign of love and light before football season? 

*A note of seriousness, though it’s not my thing. There’s a lot of horrible stuff going on in the world weather-wise. I get it. I may be complaining about wearing a sweater, but I did not have to pull that sweater out of a tree to put it on. I may need to pull up a blanket to sleep tonight, but I’ll lay down in a bed, under a roof. Please oh please oh please consider contributing to the Red Cross or The Humane Society or whatever organization pulls at your heartstrings.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

If you're anything like me -- well, first of all, God love/help you -- but if you're anything like me you spend a lot of time bossing yourself around.

It's the "shoulds" that get me.

I just got back from a whirlwind trip to New York (lovely), following a few weeks of puppy-sitting (cuddly), which meant spending more time at her house than my own. So I've not been home much for what feels like a very long time.

I walked in my front door and before I got up the stairs, I'd thought to myself, "I should go to the grocery." "It's so nice out; I should go for a run." "I should do a load of laundry before it gets too late."

The grocery. Exercise. Laundry. Mmm, sounds like a party.

Oh, and while I'm at it, I should lose 15 pounds, get to work earlier, go to yoga three times a week and the gym twelve, volunteer, call my mother, learn French and Italian and conversational German, and then lose another 5.

How come I never say to myself, "I should sit on the couch and watch TV?" "I should crack a beer and put my feet up?" "I should get off my own damn back for a couple of minutes and relax and enjoy a little bit of life?"

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm hardly a slave-driver. I relax, a lot. Seriously, a lot. But it seems like, generally, we're so mean to ourselves. So hard on ourselves. I'm the worst offender -- if I ever heard any of my friends speak to themselves in the same tone of voice as my perpetual inner dialog, I would wag my finger and shame them for being ridiculous and unrealistic with their demands and their harshness.

So before my self-indulgence wears off and the self-inflicted to-do list reinstates itself, I'm going to raid the fridge -- which currently holds two beers and a string cheese -- open the door so some of this springness comes inside to greet me, and read a book while Mario Lopez fills me in on the important comings and goings of Hollywoodland.

I encourage you to do the same, instead of the laundry.

The United States of Tara

I'm up early today. I'm never up early.

And it's Sunday. I'm certainly never up early on Sundays.

It took me a few minutes to realize why I was distracted this morning. I let my mind wander -- over the things I need to get done, about what I should wear to church, whether or not it's ever, ever going to get warm again. I looked at the sunshine which (and you'll never catch me admitting this out loud) is always most special in the mornings.

And I smiled at my life.

A week ago, I celebrated one year back in Ohio, after almost a decade in New York. I'm still not sure why I chose that particular date, that particular time to realize it was time to come home.

And I thought, again, about one year back. Tara. Ahh, so that's what's on my mind.

One year ago today, my circle of friends lost one of our own. We found each other and reached out to each other and pulled in to comfort one another. We came together over Facebook and phone calls and a funeral. We reunited for the worst of reasons.

But... we reunited.

I'm a firm believer in silver linings. And my life, my tiny, inconsequential little life, looks a lot different than it did a year ago. I'm in a new city. I have a new job. I have a beautiful apartment all to myself and a group of funny, enjoyable friends. I have a dog curled up next to me who belongs to a pretty amazing guy.

Tara, you little magic maker. I know you've got your hands full up there, keeping track of everyone down here you loved, and who worshiped you in return. Hell, that crazy, wonderful, every-bit-as-spunky-as-you-ever-were sister must keep you on your angel toes 26 hours a day. It's bittersweet that Kristen is there with you. Who could have even thought it possible. But in some small way, my life looks different today because of you. Because of the people I'm lucky enough to know, who were lucky enough to know you. 

I really think Tara brought a lot of people together this past year, her first in Heaven. And I think she really would have loved that.

 Tara Lynne Scare, 10/23/74 - 04/03/10

Year in (Book) Review: The Fates Will Find Their Way

March 31st. End of Q1 (how corporate sounding is that?) After setting my obtainably aggressive goal of 30 books this year, averaging out to about 2.5 per month, I have read exactly one. One book. I’m a reader. I’m a writer. The odds are not in my favor here, but I just booked two flights for the next few months, and I’m not getting off either plane until I’ve put back at least a novel apiece.

Anyway.

Mixed feelings on this one. I chose it on a whim, based on the girl-logic of... I liked the colors on the cover. The Fates Will Find Their Way, Hannah Pittard’s first novel, tells the story of a teenage girl who disappears. At least, on the surface that’s what it does. Really, though, it gives us an inside perspective from an unidentified narrator – one of a circle of neighborhood boys who grow up with her – on the peripheral young lives that are affected by her disappearance. How they romanticize her, how they project their own curiosities and fears onto her mysterious life, how the ghost of her affects their friendships with one another, their relationships with their own families, how they view and interact and relate to the women they choose for wives.

It’s really a beautiful, somewhat haunting (couldn’t think of a less cliché word there, so I went with the obvious), quite matter-of-fact tone of voice. Wait. I take that back. To call it matter-of-fact would intonate that there are, obviously, facts involved. And there are none. When someone simply disappears, the people she disappears from are left to fill in blanks, gaps, and thread together a story from bits of scrap.

And that, I think, is why I finished the book feeling a little unsatisfied.

I don’t much care for ambiguity. I don’t like loose. I don’t know what it is in my personality that repels open-endedness, but I expect that, by the final page, or the closing credits, that I’ll feel some sense of completion. Fulfillment. Just ask my exes, many of whom still get semi-annual follow-up calls to discuss where we stand, what's going on in our (now defunct) relationship, and what I can expect for the future. It's awesome. I think they all really appreciate my thoroughness.

I got nothin’. I got a bunch of maybes and a couple might’ves and one or two who-the-hell-knows-what-happened-to-her-reallys.

So lovely narrative, original and interesting point-of-view, frustrating ending for those of us who are too childish to enjoy when things aren’t wrapped up for us in big bows.

Meeting Minutes of The Lunch Ones: The VD Edition

You know those top secret government papers that get released sometimes, only there are so many black bars censoring words that you can only see, like, three “ands” and a “the”? That’s what today’s meeting minutes would look like if the government released reports on The Lunch Ladies’ post-Valentine’s Day conversation. Here are the printable, key pieces:

TxO: Has anyone asked TxO  about her Valentine's day?
TxO: No. But I hope it sucked.
TxO: Why?
TxO: Because she’s going to marry my brother.
TxO: Why? Should we ask her? Where is she? (gasp) Did she get laid?!
TxO: Bet so. Taking bets.
TxO: I say YES... absolutely. Wait, what? Has she ever even met your brother?
TxO: Don’t say “get laid.” That sounds crass. Say "got some nookie."
TxO: There are leftovers of a giant cookie in the break room. (TxO gets easily distracted. TxO would also never eat even a small piece of a giant cookie.)

(Conversation halts while TxO bolts to the break room. She returns presently with hot pink icing smeared on her chin.)

TxO: So. We think yes, definitely laid?
TxO: Don’t say laid.
TxO-in-question (appearing just in time for that gem): You girls are dirty. And I’m eating cookie. Which also sounds dirty. Did you know there’s a giant cookie in the break room?

(Conversation halts again while TxO bolts for round two of giant cookie.)

TxO: Sooo??!!
TxO: Spill it.
TxO: What the hell are you guys talking about? (TxO and TxO fill TxO in on the wager about her Valentine’s Day night.)

(A moment of quiet.)

TxO: How about those (fill in fave sports team here)?
TxO: I KNEW it!
TxO (the one with the brother, wailing): No!!!
TxO: Yes!! You go, girl.
TxO: NO! Wait, did you seriously just say “you go girl?”
TxO: Wow. To all of that. Wow.
TxO: Talk. Details. How was it?
TxO: Shit. Now I'll have to tell my brother you're not a virgin anymore.
TxO: Excuse me. I do not bone and tell.
TxO (sighing happily): This is way more entertaining than work.
TxO: I don’t have to tell you anything. And don’t you go telling him anything. Not that there’s anything to tell.
TxO: Oh yes you do. It’s Bone and Tell day.
TxO: Seriously, though. Did you play the skin flute??

(Pause for dramatic effect, so everyone has a moment to fully embrace that the term “The Skin Flute” has now entered our vernacular.)

TxO (clearly tickled at herself for introducing a new naughty word): Ooh, I'm telling my brother you have mad skin-flute-playing skills.
TxO: Uh, more like the skin-fucking-clarinet, if you know what I'm saying.
TxO: What a weird thing to get competitive about.
TxO: Really, TxO? Do you and your brother talk about that stuff?
TxO: Yes?
TxO: Awesome. Mind if I start calling you Angelina Jolie and her weird blonde brother?
TxO (defensively): Well, mostly I talk and he laughs.
TxO: Have you guys made out?
TxO: You guys suck. Sorry I love my brother.
TxO: No, that’s cool. Just don’t, like, love your brother.
TxO: (Sings brother’s name over and over and over again.)
TxO: (And some more.)
TxO: Make it stop.
TxO: (And one more time.)

(Conversation halts while TxO and TxO’s boss walks down TxO and TxO’s aisle.)

TxO: Busted. Too much bi-aisle giggling.

(Conversation halts while TxO goes back for round three of the giant cookie. Comes back singing, “I Did It All For The Cookie. The Cookie.” When asked if there’s any left, explains that no, there’s not, because she grabbed the whole thing then ran furtively from the break room.)

TxO: Can you write a blog about this?
TxO: I’m not sure how to unleash the term "skin flute" onto my poor readers.
TxO (clearly unhappy with the irregular blogging schedule I vigilantly don’t stick to): You don’t have readers IF YOU DONT HAVE ANYTHING TO READ.
TxO:  Always keep ‘em wanting more, TxO. Words to live by.
TxO: Oh. I’m more of a “spread it and forget it” girl.

(Conversation halts while we all pray for TxO’s soul.)

TxO: Anyway. My bun is so bad today.
TxO: I think your post-nookie bun looks great!
TxO: Thanks TxO. I took the literal approach to sexy bed head.
TxO: Jesus.
TxO: TxO has bun envy.
TxO: It's pretty neat for bed head. You must be a conservative lover. Unlike my hubby and me, who managed to lose his wedding ring during our Valentine’s Day nookie.
TxO: Ask her where they found it...
TxO: If I were a guy, I'd totally do you.
TxO: God, I normally leave (enter boyfriend’s name here) looking like Amy Winehouse.
TxO: Christ on a crutch.

(Conversation halts while we all pray for TxO’s soul. Again. It’s obviously not working.)

 

Year in (Book) Review: The Blessings of the Animals

I can't help it. I procrastinate. I always think I'm going to stop, and then something distracts me and I don't.

But here we are, only halfway through February, and my goal of 30 book reviews in the new year seems perilously in danger.

Luckily for me -- and for you -- this first one is a lovely start. I promise to pick up the pace.

You may remember last summer I reviewed a haunting, inappropriate-for-a-summer-getaway-but-so-damn- good-that-I-couldn't-stop-reading-it-even-though-it-was-creeping-me-out-and-sort-of-ruining-my-4th-of-July- holiday book called The Kindness of Strangers, by Katrina Kittle.

You may also remember that very same author was my uber-cool sophomore English teacher and has over recent years morphed into my writing mentor. And also a friend, I think. Or, at least, we'll be friends once I get over not being able to address her as anything other than Miss Kittle.

She's knocked another one out of the park with The Blessings of the Animals, and the more I read from her the more excited I get to read what's next from her. And because she is not a procrastinator, there's always something next.

Blessings opens: "On the morning my husband left me, hours before I knew he would..." and somehow, the simplicity and straightforwardness of this line sets the tone for everything that's to follow. Our narrator is empathetic, because she's heartbroken. We've all been heartbroken. She's pragmatic, even about heartbreak. I've never been pragmatic about anything, I'm fairly certain, but I can admire and respect it in others. And she's funny. And she brings Muriel the goat into our lives and that, in and of itself, is enough reason to fall into this book.

Last year, post-Independence-Day-Pedophilia-Debacle, I expressed anxiety over reviewing a book by someone I knew, someone I adore, because I wasn't sure how to maintain my integrity if it sucked. I'm so glad it didn't, I'm so glad this one is even better, and I'm so glad I can happily spread the love here.

Awesome side note (or, at least, awesome to anyone who thinks this is the kind of thing that qualifies as awesome): when discussing the "blurbs" for the cover of Blessings with her agent, or publisher, I can't remember, they asked Katrina who she'd most like to have write it. She said Sara Gruen, fresh off her overwhelming success and mid-movie-making for her wonderful, wonderful Water for Elephants. They agreed, she'd be an amazing quote. They also told Katrina, politely I'm sure, it was never gonna happen. So Katrina, quite the pragmatist herself, Facebooked Sara and asked, animal lover to animal lover, if she wouldn't mind taking a break from her movie making and book selling to read a new novel, and perhaps, should she feel moved to do so, write a sentence or two. Sara obliged. I hope Katrina stuck her tongue out at those skeptics.

"In this beautifully crafted novel, Katrina Kittle deftly illustrates the devastation of betrayal and loss, the healing power of love and compassion, and the joy and comfort that comes from knowing -- and relating to -- animals." Sara Gruen, New York Times bestselling author of Water for Elephants. 

Way to kick ass, KK.

Just Some Things To Think About

Generally speaking, I'm a pretty smart girl. I can't do math in my head and I ended up in Cleveland once on my way home to Dayton -- from Columbus -- but outside of arithmetic and geography I can pretty much hold my own. 

But tonight some flaky girl I hardly know made a comment on my Facebook page about how she doesn't "get girls who like sports." Aside from being a weirdly rude thing to write on the Facebook page of someone -- a girl -- you barely know and who clearly likes sports, I realized I'm completely confused by girls who don't like sports. Not offended by them or anything (except for maybe that one), but just sort of sad for them. 

So then I started thinking about other things that confuse me. 

In no particular order and hardly exhaustive, here is my list. I should note, most of these apply directly to me.

People who call in to a hotline to vote "I have no opinion on that."

People who say "It's me" when they call or leave a voice mail. (I do this at least once a day.)

When traffic cops stand in the middle of an intersection at rush hour and just tell people to go with the light.

Magnets that don't hold anything on the refrigerator.

Bad, seriously bad, television. The people who watch it, the people who make it, the people who "act" in it, all of it very, very bad. 

People who don't get just a little bit, just the slightest tinge of, melancholy at the holidays. 

Fat people who come to the gym just to go tanning.

How all church people can sing.

Why I hate wearing pantyhose, except for those first few seconds when I'm pulling them on. For those few seconds, I feel more like a woman than almost any other time. It's one of the most feminine, timeless things you can do, really.

How quickly I can get over that femininity by cussing like a sailor when I put them on wrong and they're all twisted around my calf like a tourniquet and I have them on differently than the last time I wore them so the toes are funky and backwards. Why they can’t put a clearly marked tag in pantyhose? Every other piece of clothing has a designated front and back.

How I have the same body loathing complex I did in high school, only NOW I look at pictures of myself from THEN and realize I weighed 7 pounds LESS than my current goal weight.

The expression "It is what it is." That just seems like an unhelpful waste of breath.

People who don't understand the depth of Jimmy Buffett, the soul of Joe vs. the Volcano, or why sports are so fucking awesome.  

Michigan fans, Red Sox fans, and  people who hate New York City.

Meeting Minutes of The Lunch Ones: January

*Meeting originally called for 12:00. Meeting moved to 11:30 because we're all hungry pigs.

*The Tiny One held up meeting start six minutes, by trying to cook her food in the crowded microwave room 30 seconds at a time.

*The Funny One decided that The Cute One* needed to immediately change her status update to “single and ready to mingle” and then go mingle. Leading to discussions including, but not limited to:
          *Can the oldest and the youngest among us mingle in the same spots?
          *The pros and cons of online dating.
          *How long it would take TCO, or any of us, to get Ruffied if we followed TFO's dating advice.
          *TFO’s thoughts on how slutty she would be if she was single.

Which led to...

*The Blonde One feeling compelled to speak up when TFO demanded TCO explain the current state of her cherry.

*Some confusion as to whether TCO is a virgin or not. TCO herself seems... unsure.

*The Number discussion, after I blurted my discovery from last night: I’m Facebook friends with more than half of my Number. The number ranged from unsure (TCO, see above) to two (I’ll never tell) to unsure (TFO, for very different reasons than TCO).

Which led to...

*Discussion on who among us were good girls, and who were less than. Four of five agreed that we were all good girls, TFO being the only, and obvious, exception. Rather than disputing our findings, TFO told a story about schlongs.

*Horrible, ugly laughter (me, again) when TCO expressed confusion, requiring an explanation (graphic) that schlongs are not, in fact, male underwear ("I thought a shlong was, you know, like, a thong for a guy"). TCO now familiar with the term “banana hammock” and charged with finding one appropriate way to use it in a sentence before our next meeting.

*Discussion on facial hair (male) prompted by unidentified, questionably cute, hairy-faced boy entering the cafeteria. TCO and TBO, against. TTO, depends on the man and the amount of scruffiness. TFO, totally for: “The dirtier the better.” No surprise there.

General consensus and overall takeaway: sex is way more fun to talk about at lunch than poop.


*Formerly known as The Baby One. Too much confusion with two TBOs. Started to call her The Little One, but since there’s already a Tiny One I was afraid readers would think I was lunching at a daycare center or with midgets. Also, no titles here are meant to imply that each of these girls is not, in her own right, funny, tiny, or cute. They are all equally funny, tiny, and cute. But only The Blonde One is blonde.